The Man in The Morgue
by bad2wolf2mcgee
Summary: The British Library fundraiser is difficult for everyone, Sherlock has a case to solve, John's just trying to keep his friends alive, Heather's in trouble and the dead. Well their problems are on a whole new level. Third in my series of Sherlock episodes. NOT Sherlock/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone, well this is strange, nearly two years later and here we are all over again. This is the long awaited THIRD part of my Sherlock series (bother other parts, 'The Tom Cat's Collar' and 'The Surrey Intrusion' can be found on my page) This is also rather odd for me because, due to demand this will be the first story uploaded before I have fully completed every chapter which is as worrying for you as it is for me. However, rest assured that when I start something I finish it, so just keep pestering me and I'll keep writing.**

**The game is afoot!**

Post

John grunted as he stood up, picking the post off the front door mat and sorting through it. "Bill, bill, junk, Heather, Sherlock, junk, Heather, Heather."

"Yes?"

John looked up to see Heather dressed in black, kicking a bursting handbag across the floor as she attempted to fit her earring while carrying a pair of heels.

"Post."

"Ah, great thanks."

She took the letters he handed her and rolled them up, shoving them in her coat pocket and picking up the handbag that had landed near the staircase.

"You off somewhere?"

"Uh, yeah, funeral back home."

"Oh I'm so sorry."

Heather shrugged and patted herself down for her purse.

"Don't worry, I didn't know him. Mum's second cousin removed something or other. I had no idea I was even going until about half an hour ago."

"Oh well. Good luck?"

Heather laughed, stepping through the door as he opened it for her. John watched her as she stumbled down the road to Baker Street station and then turned back to the post in hand.

"John!" Sherlock yelled from the upstairs living room, "John!"

John stopped to consider the benefits of an early morning walk but his pyjama trousers and t-shirt were a little wanting as protection against the cold air outside. So instead he reluctantly headed up the stairs and into the kitchen.

"What?"

"My eyes!"

Sherlock was rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. John dropped the post on the table and rushed over, pulling Sherlock's hands from his face and leaning up to look into his eyes.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock paused, John's hands on his wrists.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your eyes."

They stared at each other for a moment, then John caught on. "You meant your frozen eyes, didn't you?"

"Of course."

John let go and stepped back, pointing to the mug cupboard.

"Mrs Hudson brought up some cake, needed the freezer space."

Sherlock stormed over to the door and yelled out of it.

"Mrs Hudson if you must insist on baking more than your customers can eat, do something useful and send it to a soup kitchen."

"Sherlock." John chastised.

He settled down on the comfy chair and picked up the mug of tea he'd left on the floor. "Do you have any cases?"

"No, why?"

"You're getting…irritable."

"No, I'm frustrated because my eyeballs have defrosted and now I have to use them within two days."

"Why not stick them in a soup." murmured John.

**Well it may not seem much, but these things never do. Please review because not only do they inspire me to write but I often get the odd idea so it's nice to hear from you all.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Firstly I have to say I'm so sorry for leaving it this late, I put this up ages ago and then just seemed to disappear. I did have reasons, firstly being some trouble with a friend and my last pet rat passing away, also I'm a little uncomfortable putting any of this up when it's not finished yet but I'm working through it at a steady pace and the storyline is totally worked out. So I hope you enjoy this chapter and I can't promise the gap won't happen again but I can promise that no matter how many days/weeks pass , I am working on this and you will get more.**

Inspection

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Heather smiled supportively and bypassed the rest of the grieving relatives with a quick mumble heading straight for the taxi waiting in the car park.

"Leaving?"

Heather turned quickly and faced her father.

"Ah, yeah, sorry. I couldn't get the whole day off work."

"How's that going?"

"Work? Good, it's good. My new assistant is…nice."

"I hear you're hosting a fundraiser next month."

"Well the library is, the back rooms are starting to fill up and even with the computer storage we're still in major need of a new wing."

"How did the planning permission come?"

"You'd have to ask someone higher up than me dad. I'm just a glorified archivist."

Her dad chuckled and opened the car door.

"Well, take lots of pictures for your mum and maybe drop grandma and grandpa a call?"

Heather nodded and pulled her heels off, closing the door.

"The nearest train station please."

As the taxi pulled away from the cemetery Heather pulled her phone out of her bag and dialled, the now very familiar number. "Jameson?"

"Yes mam."

"How did the request forms go?"

"Two acceptances back already, four declines and seventeen still pending."

"That's still more than I'd thought."

"Management is making tours of the building today."

"Fuck. Again?"

"Yes mam, Mr Hale asked when you'd be back in."

"Why?"

"He didn't say."

"Alright, I'm on the way back in now." She hung up and threw the phone on the seat next to her, pulling out the clothes she'd stuffed into her handbag that morning. Switching her black jacket for green and pulling out a green belt to break up the black dress. That looked more work attire than funeral chic.

When she finally rushed through into her office, her assistant, Martin Jameson, was stood by the door with a pile of manila envelopes.

"Have they..?"

"Been and gone mam."

"Fantastic." She collapsed into her chair and stared at him. "What happened?"

"I gave them the expense statistics, the lists of the imported and exported texts and kept Sam as far away from them as possible." Heather pulled her glasses out of the top draw of her desk and leant her face on her hand.

"Jameson, thank you so much." He dropped the envelopes on her desk and pulled a post-it note from his pocket.

"These are the prospective texts for the coming month, the budget forms for the month after next, the request forms for the special circumstance texts and the information about next month's fundraiser; including the dress code, guest forms and security details for each department."

Heather pulled a disgusted face.

"Seriously?"

"And Sam left a very…colourful message with me."

Jameson stuck the note on top of the envelopes and stood upright, his hands clasped behind his back. "If that's all mam…"

"Yeah, yeah that's all. Thanks." He nodded respectfully and left quickly. Heather plucked the post–it note from the paper and squinted at Jameson's almost illegible writing. Never-the-less even she could make out the angry tone and basic idea, Sam wasn't pleased at being shielded from the 'Big-wigs'. Heather grunted and scrunched the post-it up in her hand and flicked it into the bin before picking up her letter opener and attacking the first envelope.

Sherlock strode purposefully into St. Barts Morgue not stopping for Molly who hurried to keep up. "Lestrade did call me to let you know you'd be coming but I haven't even…"

"Good I'd rather see the body in the state it was brought in"

"Did you hear how they found him?"

"Thrown on the doorstep of Scotland Yard yes."

"Is that why you're here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well they're all pretty freaked out about it, a body thrown at their own door. And they call you when they're worried about a case."

"It seems you've answered you own question then."

He barged through the door and examined the only corpse on the table. Late forties, dyed black hair, stubble, small scar on the cheek but otherwise well groomed. The skin of his arms and legs however was covered in tiny cuts.

"Where's John?"

"Work. What's the preliminary prognosis?"

"Drowning. Water in the lungs and salt on the skin."

"Have you tested the lung water yet?"

"No that's what I was going to do after lunch. I wasn't expecting."

"When you've finished come to the lab." He ordered.

Molly frowned a little but held her tongue and took the sample from the side leaving the room.

**Please take a little time to review. I know you've got other stuff to do but it really does mean a lot to me and all the other writers on this site.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well I have some fantastic new for you all. I struggled with this story for ages and then, suddenly, just before I had to come back to university and be all cold and sad, I had a brain wave. The story is now complete. I literally just wrote for a day and it's all done so there's no way you won't be getting and end. You're welcome.**

**On with the show.**

The Unexpected

Heather stopped and put down her pen. She pulled her glasses off her face and ran a hand through her hair, it was still too early to go home yet, she had at least an hour to waste.

"Should have called in sick." She grumbled, flicking her pen across the table.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Heather jumped and stared, wide eyed, at the door. A tall handsome man stood in her door way. Light green eyes and dark blond hair, well presented, expensive suit –well, you could afford it when you were Chief Executive of the British Library.

"Sir! I ah, I just. I have never faked a day off in my entire life…well not my entire life but that was school and everyone pulls a sick day every once in a while. Apart from you I bet you never… I… I'm sorry." Mark Hale stepped into the room with a smile.

"I didn't think people actually did that."

"Did what?"

"Rambled so eloquently."

"I ramble a lot."

"Or you're exceptionally eloquent." He motioned to the seat opposite hers, "May I?" she stared at him for a second before realising he'd asked her a question.

"Yes! Of course, yes." He held his tie to his chest and took a seat, easing himself into the chair and crossing his legs.

"Expense forms?" he asked, pointing at the papers on her desk.

"Uh no, budget."

"Oh, killer."

"Yeah. Do people still say killer? I thought it was a 90's thing."

"Ah well, Nottingham uni, '93."

"Really? Cardiff 2007."

"23?"

"Almost."

"I know, you're birthday's in 2 days." He smiled mischievously.

"Well that's…creepy." He laughed nodding.

"Yeah, yeah I guess it is. My job though, I hired you so I got your file. You doing anything nice?" Heather shrugged.

"I'm not a birthday person."

"Not a birthday person, how can you not be a birthday person?"

"It's just any other day. It's just people saying 'congratulations on not getting hit by a bus in the past year. Well done you.'"

He studied her, his face solemn.

"It's my birthday today."

Heather froze and they stared at each other. Suddenly he burst out laughing.

"Not really. Sorry, just wanted to see how you'd react, that was mean."

Heather breathed a sigh of relief and shuffled her feet under the desk. It was like being back in her first interview. "Seriously though, I want to prove you wrong."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"Let me take you out."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, let me take you out. We can have dinner, drink some wine, a little conversation."

"Like a date?"

"Exactly like a date."

"Like a date or actually a date?"

"Depends, do you want to come?"

"Sure. I mean, yes."

"Then it's a date. Pick you up tomorrow at eight."

He stood up and lent over the desk, kissing her on the cheek and then heading for the door where he turned and pointed at the papers. "Oh and Heather, you have an assistant for a reason."

And then he was gone, leaving butterflies flitting around her stomach.

SH

Sherlock was sitting on the table when John got home. His long legs were propped up on a chair and his elbows touched his knees as he hunched over and peered into the oven.

"What is it this time? Cooking hearts? Baking an arm?"

"Roast chicken." Said Sherlock.

"You're making dinner?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

John shook his head, moving into the main living room and picking through the post on the table.

"No. Just, you haven't done it in a while."

"I got bored."

"I thought you had a case."

"Disappointing."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock hummed and ran his fingers between each other, staring at the cross hatched digits. "Have you seen this?"

"What is it?" Sherlock said, not looking up from his hands.

"An invite to that charity party at Heather's work, she must have put it through the door."

Sherlock was silent so John pressed on.

"It's on the 7th. Black tie. Dinner, a bar."

"Facinating."

"I'm sure I have a suit somewhere."

At this statement Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"You want to go?"

"Yes, well, it sounds. I don't know. She asked us to go, she'll know if we lie and say we're busy the food is free because we're guests and we can always leave after that."

"We?"

"If I'm going then you are too."

"Then it's settled, neither of us have to go."

"Sherlock."

"I have more important things to be doing than attending parties John."

"Really, so uh, why are you cooking dinner again."

"because I'm bor…"

They stared at each other for a beat and Sherlock pushed the chair away, coming to his feet and heading for the door.

"Fine, but if something interesting arrives before then I'm busy."

He left the room and John crossed the kitchen to open the oven.

"Sherlock," he called, "Chicken's done."

**Thank you so much to all who are now following this story but it's had no reviews so far and I'd really like to hear from you all. It only takes a second. I know it's dull and you may not know what to say but really anything is welcome.**


	4. Chapter 4

**GraceSong: Hello, thank you. I'm really glad you're enjoying the series. Mark does seem too good to be true but, then again, maybe he's just as lovely as he seems. Who knows…well, me and I'm not telling.**

**YUNeLenna: Thank you so much it's great to hear new people are reading and enjoying this series. Sherlock will feature more and more especially as the actual case comes into effect. He is however difficult to write which is sometimes why he's not so prevalent but I'm in the process of editing and will be adding a little more in. **

A Date and its Ripples

The next morning Heather slipped into work as quietly as she could. She took the public stairs and mingled with the visitors before tiptoeing past Jameson's desk straight into her office, jumping when the door clicked shut and hanging her head. Why was she nervous, it's not as if anyone heard him ask her out? It's not like they were going to queue up outside her door to stone her if they had. And yet here she was, five minutes after arriving at her office and already willing the clock to speed on so she could escape. Of course that also meant she'd be closer to the date itself.

With a sigh she collapsed into her chair and picked up the first file on her desk and suddenly she wished she'd finished them instead of going home early yesterday too keyed up to form the multitude of little zero's that her segment required every year just to keep running. She took a pen from a draw and tapped it against the wood. Well at least things couldn't get much worse.

"Hello Pet."

Heather froze then rolled her eyes and looked up from the budget forms on her desk.

"Jameson let you in?"

"No."

"You walked straight past him didn't you."

Sam sat down on the chair opposite her and lit a cigarette.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Heather scoffed, pushing her glasses further onto her nose and ticking a few boxes.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not, I'm just busy."

"Busy with…"

"Work Sam. I work here. I know you might find the concept hard to understand but this job is important to me and in this economy I can't afford to lose it."

Sam stared at her for a moment before stubbing out his smoke in her cup, getting up and slamming the door on his way out.

She groaned and let her head fall onto the desk.

"Fuck."

SH

The restaurant was small, a little too small. Heather sat, uncomfortable in her chair, twirling a plain ring around her finger. If it had been a big place she could have easily blended into the background, listened to the conversations of the tables closest to her and the bread in the rustic square basket was calling to her. But in the quiet of the tiny room, the soft music was louder than any conversation had by the eight couples around her and she felt like the waiting staff were watching her so to pick up a piece of bread now would seem like she was giving in. He was ten minutes late, and counting. It was a pickle. Did she eat the bread, order as though she wanted to eat alone or did she sit, wait and then just run in ten minutes time?

Fuck, this is why she didn't date.

What the hell…ooo.

The door had opened and Mark slid his coat from his shoulders, handing it to the hostess at the door with a gracious smile. She caught his eye and the smile widened as he shimmied around two tables, apologising when he brushed past a woman having dinner with her husband. When he finally sat down he took out his phone and switched it off before sheepishly raising his eyebrows and taking a breath.

"I'm sorry. I'm so late aren't I?"

She waved and hand and pulled a face.

"Nah."

He gave her an incredulous look and she froze.

_Nailed it_ she thought. "I mean, yeah but I haven't been here long."

"Really?"

"No, couple of minutes, really only just got here."

A waitress arrived at the table and handed a copy of the menu to Mark.

"Welcome to The Olive Branch sir, this is the menu and the wine list is on the back. I'm so glad to see you made it, did you get stuck on the northern line?" she said, her face the picture of angelic innocence while Heather slowly died in her seat.

"No, I got caught in a meeting."

"Oh, well, our specials are on the board and I'll be back over to take your drinks order in just a moment."

They watched her go and Mark turned to look at Heather.

"So, 'just got here'?" he said, lips twitching upwards.

"Yeah, I may have lied."

"You're a good liar, you had me."

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh, well I choose to take that as a good note to my character."

"You should."

"Then thank you." She said.

He smiled at her and she smiled back suddenly at ease. He held up the menu in front of his face and she bit her bottom lip, lifting her own menu and squinting slightly. Now she was regretting the decision to leave her glasses at home after concluding that the sexy librarian look wasn't really as effective if you actually were a librarian.

"Are you ready to order some drinks?" Mark dropped the menu to the table and looked to Heather.

"Red?"

She nodded and he ordered a mid to high end bottle of red wine. His hair was messier than it had been at work, as though he'd run his fingers through it. She'd like to do that, she found herself thinking, run her fingers through his hair. There was a word for it in Brazilian Portuguese, she'd read it in a book they'd had on loan, an original first edition: Cafune.

"Excuse me?" Mark said.

Heather blinked, startled.

"Huh?"

"You said cafune."

"Out loud?"

"Yup."

Heather nodded slowly and took a large gulp of wine, scanning the menu for something else to focus on.

"I think I'll have the moussaka," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially as the waitress approached to take their food order, "and just so you know, I have no objection to cafune."

SH

Heather's eyes blew out as big as saucers, she blushed a light pink and Mark lent back to give his order to the waitress.

"How did it go?"

John lent against the counter holding a cup of tea as Heather slumped back into the sofa. She sighed and grinned.

"He laughed." She said.

"I'm sorry?"

"He laughed at me."

"You don't seem bothered."

"I'm not. I made a joke and he laughed, and it was a bad joke, such a bad joke and he thought I was funny. No one thinks I'm funny."

"Well…"

"No, no one finds me funny. I'm smart, I'm helpful, I'm an animal in bed but I am not funny."

"Right."

"So when I say he laughed, and I mean properly throwing his head back and chuckling, like some kind of big kid, I think you know how fantastic it went."

"Ah so you'll be seeing him again."

Sherlock strode in and brushed some papers from the laptop on the table. Heather sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, her head against the sofa back, turned up towards the ceiling.

"No."

John frowned and shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because John."

"You say you like him, he clearly likes you and you're not going for it. That makes perfect sense."

"He's my boss."

"So why did you go out with him in the first place if you knew you were going to turn him down?" John asked, crossing the room and siting in his chair.

"I don't know, he's just…I like him and, you know?"

"I have literally no idea what you just said."

"I didn't say anything." Sherlock said.

John and Heather looked up with raised eyebrows.

"I was talking to Heather." said John.

Sherlock looked confused so John pointed over the arm of his chair towards Heather who wiggled her fingers in a wave.

"When did you get here?"

"About twenty minutes ago."

"Sherlock I've been talking to her since you came in."

"Oh! I assumed you were talking to yourself."

Heather chuckled quietly and crossed her legs.

"Go on then, what have you been doing?"

"Akhvakh."

"Bless you."

John snorted into his mug and coughed to cover up the laugh. "See, now you find me funny, maybe I should date you instead – you're not my boss."

"Oh, well that's Flattering."

"Akhvakh, Russian language found in southern Dagestan and Azerbaijan. It's nearly dead so I'll most likely forget it in a day but language learning relaxes me."

"Of course it does. I'm going to go and change."

Heather got up and picked up her heels from the floor, lifting the skirt of her dress to her thighs and padding out of the room with a sway to her step.

"Is she drunk again?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head.

"No, that's happiness Sherlock. You should try it some time."

Sherlock scrunched up his face and swayed his head side to side as though contemplating the idea.

"Nah."

They smiled understandingly straight ahead and fell into a comfortable silence.

**It's cold in student accommodation. Reviews keep me warm…**


	5. Chapter 5

**YUNeLenna: Everyone seems to think Marks a bit too good to be true. Yes, you will find out if this is true, but not quite yet. Yeah, I think it's safe to say that Sam is very keen on being with her but how that turns out? Nobody knows. Well I do, but I don't count. Sherlock is Sherlock, Heather being in the room is commonplace and therefore not important, her talking about herself is even less interesting to him. No wonder he blocked her out. You don't talk too much, it's lovely to hear your views on the story and I look forward to them.**

The Party

The Hotel was heaving with people, the poured from flashy cars, dressed in the finest gowns they could squeeze into and smartest, ironed tuxedos. Heather stood in the ball room, her bag on her arm, her back to a column and a glass of white wine clutched tightly in her hand. "What did you come as, a peacock?"

Heather jumped and glanced over her shoulder at Sam. He was eyeing her long green dress with a look of pure greed.

"Not tonight Sam."

"That's not what…I didn't, that is to say…"

"Seriously Sam I'm stressed out and this dress is tighter than my shoes. Which, by the way, are pinching like crazy. So, if you could just keep the conversation light I would really appreciate it."

"Hey I can do light. Light. Okay."

He glanced around the room and nodded to the exit.

"Screw light how about we just take off, no need to be here now the dinners done and the bloody speeches have bored most of us into a walking coma."

"No. I've got to stay. I'm under obligation to be here until at least eleven." She sighed heavily, "But you're not, go ahead. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Not a chance, come on then let's do some dancing."

He grabbed her wrist and tugged her away from the pillar but she yanked her hand away and moved back. "Well now I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me. Come on, did I get the sodding bow tie wrong again."

"No, Sam it's just that."

"Hey"

Same looked up at the voice but Heather froze, the hairs on her bare back stood on end and her skin tingled. She turned slowly to smile uncomfortably at Mark who had spotted them when she left the cover of the pillar for that second.

"You know it should be a crime for you to be standing in the shadows over here. You should treat the rest of the room to that dress. She blushed and she wrapped his arm around her back, fingering the gold bands of detail that interlocked across the waist and contouring the bodice of the dress. "This is Sam I take it."

Mark held his hand out and smiled genuinely at the other man. "I hear she hides you every time I come to inspect the departments, should I be worried?" He said, a light hearted jest that seemed to be lost on Sam who stared at Mark's hand on her hip like it was a bear slowly advancing on him.

"Let's um, go and get a drink." Heather said, gently pushing on Mark's chest.

"But you already have one."

He frowned nodding down at the glass in her hands.

"Oh this? This is…this is Sam's. I was just holding it for him while he fixed his bow tie."

She handed Sam the glass and tried to give him a look that screamed, 'I'm sorry we need to talk… later' but he was still looking at Marks hand so she had to let herself be walked away towards the dance floor.

"He doesn't like me does he." Mark said as he gently lead her in a simple dance around the floor.

"No. Not really. Don't be offended though, he doesn't like most people. I seem to have a lot of friends like that now-a-days."

"That's good though. I mean think about it. Surely it's good to be someone so wonderful that even the people who have their mind set on hating the world end up liking you."

"I can't say I'd ever consciously thought about it."

"And now that you are?"

"It feels kind of nice."

"Good, it should."

He smiled at her and laughed when her foot came down onto his toes.

"Is that your way of saying you've danced enough?"

"Sorry, dancing's not a strong point."

"You're too tense." He said, pulling her a little closer and sliding his hand down to the base of her bare back. She took in a quiet breath and held herself as though ready to make a run for it. "Just breath, forget the racket, forget the people just enjoy the dance. There's no point in doing it if it's not fun."

Two dances later her feet were beginning to sting. She begged a break and pulled him over to the bar. Sherlock and John were sat on low seats around a small table, drinks in front of them that looked barely touched. Mark pointed at himself and then the bar, she nodded and moved to sit down next to Sherlock, dropping her bag by the chair.

"Please tell me you're not sticking around for my benefit." She said, sagging a little in the comfy chair.

"John thought it best to say hello to you to prove we'd shown up. Now that's out the way we can leave."

"John."

He glared at his friend and then turned a softer look to Heather.

"I was actually enjoying myself. I spoke to a woman earlier who dealt with military records, she was asking for help on a stack of letters from …"

"Here we go, is that alright? I can always change it for white."

Heather took a large glass of red wine from Mark who took the seat next to her and looked expectantly at Sherlock and John.

"Oh! This is Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective and Doctor John Watson, they're my flatmates, guys this is Mark Hale my b…"

She paused and John threw her an understanding smirk.

"I'm technically her boss." Mark finished, "Though only at work."

John nodded and held out a hand as Heather sipped at her wine.

"It's lovely, I ah, like what you did with the place. Looks costly though."

"The right fundraiser can generate millions in one night ten thousand here or there is a pretty good investment really when you do the maths but I know what you mean. Feels a bit ironic huh?"

Sherlock threw his head back and glared at the ceiling. Heather leant over and tapped his arm. He looked up at her so she smiled slightly and with a wilting look towards her half glass of wine she mumbled,

"Come and dance with me."

"What?"

"Dance with me."

"Why?"

"Please."

Her eyes widened, pleading. His narrowed and he gave her a stiff nod before uncoiling from his chair and holding out a hand expectantly. She stood and nudged Mark, still deep in conversation with John.

"I'll be right back."

**Thank you all for your continued support. Reviews are much appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry this took so long but I'm currently doing work experience to become…well, an Archivist actually. Hence why I picked the job for Heather because it's something I know a little something about but anyway…yes 10 until half five everyday plus homework and then I sleep because I'm shattered but today due to high winds the National Library shut down so here I am with a little more energy. **

**Nadia Leigh:I'm really glad you're enjoying the story and yes and no with the dancing. There will be dancing but it may be interrupted. Sam is rather wonderful, I care about him as a character a lot so I'm glad you like him too. But darling, why would you want to laugh like Moffat, I bet your laugh is much nicer. I'd rather hear that. :)**

Sherlock waited at the base of the stairs to the second level, tapping his foot impatiently while he waited for Heather to return from the bathroom. Finally she hurried down towards him and grabbed his arm dragging him to the dance floor. He took her waist as he spoke.

"Your feet clearly hurt, why are we here?"

"Two reasons. The first, I wanted to say thank you for coming. I know this isn't you normal thing so I just want to say I appreciate it."

He was silent so she continued. "And secondly because I want to ask your opinion."

"On what, your hopeless romantic entanglements."

"Yes."

He seemed a little taken aback for a moment most likely because she hadn't been offended by the term 'hopeless' but she continued.

"What interest could I possibly have in that?"

"Sherlock please, I know you don't need to be interested to notice things. It takes you seconds to learn more about a person then John or I could in weeks. Just tell me what you think of …"

"S'cuse me, can I cut in."

Sam stood defiantly on their left and Sherlock dropped her like she was on fire. Sam stepped up and held her much more gently than she'd expected. "So, how long have you and Mr suave been 'making the beast with two backs'?"

"As much as I appreciate the reference Sam, please don't call it that, we haven't even…we've been seeing each other since the day me and you had that argument."

"When were you planning on telling me?"

"I don't really know."

He snorted and looked away from her.

"You know, I always thought it was healthy, the way we're so honest with each other. Now I'm starting to think we'd be a lot happier if we just lied."

"Sam…"

A scream cut through the moment with deafening quality. Everyone on the ballroom floor looked up at the balcony to see a woman holding her stomach as a red stain blossomed across the aqua material. The screamer stood with her hands over her mouth as the woman stumbled forward into the rail and toppled straight over. People were running, the woman was falling, straight towards Heather and Sam.

An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back into a warm body. She watched the woman slam to the floor and shot her gaze to Sam who was shrugging off the hand on his collar. Heather turned around, expecting to see Mark but Sherlock was examining the woman on the floor, his arm still clenched around her waist.

"Sherlock." she hissed.

He looked at her and she motioned down to his arm which instantly slid away. He knelt by the corpse and Heather looked around herself. A crowd was beginning to gather as people returned to the room warily. Mark was gently pushing a few people back, he looked over at her and mouth, 'you okay?' she nodded and he gave her a concerned look before returning to reassuring the onlookers. John had fought his way through the crowd and was advancing on them quickly. He dropped down to his knees and pressed two fingers to her throat, shaking his head when he found no pulse.

"Painter. Works mainly in oils. Good but not selling well. In the middle of an affair. Keeps tropical fish." Sherlock said.

"Stabbed. Wound is small, tiny actually and torn. There are flecks of…what is that?"

John held out his fingers to Sherlock who squinted at his hand.

"Paint, wood paint."

"How about a paint brush?"

They both looked up at Heather who had crouch near them, "She could have been stabbed with a paint brush I mean I have some and after a while the paint on the handle chips off just like that."

"So you've joined the crime fighting ranks now pet."

Sam smirked and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

"Put them away Sam." She said, turning back to the body, "You said she was a painter, maybe she brought a brush or two."

"They'd be in her bag." Sherlock said. He got up and walked quickly to the stairs, John followed as Heather stood and without taking her eyes from the body she snatched the lighter from Sam's hand.

**Finally, you yell, a murder! Well it was a rather long time coming wasn't it.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Oh look, I'm back. So sorry it took a while. Still we're getting into the juicy bits now.**

**Nadia Leigh: Thank you! I'm sorry this one was a little late but university suddenly got extra hectic. I'm technically a volunteer archivist at the moment as I'm finishing up my English Literature degree and then hopefully I'll be starting a masters in Archive Admin. in September. Honestly I haven't a clue what I'll end up doing but I love history, museums, books and behind the scenes work so that's one line I'm looking down. Archiving is fun but can be quite tiring mentally and sometimes (because you're looking at stuff that maybe hasn't been seen in 50 or so years) you see stuff you really wish you hadn't. It also requires a vast knowledge on lots of subjects. I need to be able to recognise people, cars, places time periods up to the year, fashion, books and when they were published ect. Ect. Like I said, mentally tiring. But it's still pretty exciting.**

**GraceSong: I'm really glad people have taken so well to Heather. My inspiration for her started with my mother and one of my best friends so it means a lot when people are interested in her life and her as a person. Thank you for reading and, of course, for reviewing! It really means a lot.**

Statuesque

Lestrade stood over the woman with his hands on hips, glaring at Sherlock, John and Heather. "Why is it when I turn up at a weird one it's always followed by one of the three of you?"

Heather snorted and wrapped her arms around herself. "Trust me, it's not intentional." She said.

"Alright someone tell me exactly what happened. Nobody gets to leave until you've all given details and a statement to my officers."

"We were just sitting talking," John said, "Then Sherlock and Heather got up to dance and Mark left to talk to…someone. Next thing we know someone's screaming and this woman falls from the balcony."

Sherlock was now examining the crowd around the hall, never taking his eyes of them. "She was stabbed in the ladies bathrooms upstairs, once in the stomach with one of her own paintbrushes. So female killer then. She stumbles out of the bathroom to the balcony and falls over the edge."

"Where she almost squashes me." Heather added.

Lestrade frowned. "Why female? I mean anyone can walk into a toilet."

"Shallow stab to the stomach." Sherlock sighed, "Men normally prefer a high blow in a moment of passionate anger, heavy and normally blunt. Women lean towards lower blows and stabbing."

Lestrade turned to Sally Donovan.

"Focus the interviews on women and I want to know everyone who came in and out of the toilets in the last half hour of the party."

She nodded and pulled a few uniformed officers with her to begin questioning the guests. Heather felt a hand on her back and smiled at Mark who'd stepped up behind her with her glass of wine. She sipped gratefully at it and turned to face him.

"I'm going to grab my glasses from my coat. Shall we go and sit down somewhere after. It looks like we're going to be here a while."

"Sure, come on."

He took her arm and they made their way back over to the bar.

Heather disappeared towards the cloakroom and returned ten minutes later with her glasses on her head. Mark took their two drinks from his seat at the bar and came to sit next to her by a small table. She kicked off her heels, sighing at the feeling.

"So when you said consulting detective?" Mark said.

"He's a real treasure huh?"

"It's strangely fascinating."

"Did you know her?" She asked.

"The woman? Yeah actually. Kind of. She tried to talk to me earlier but I was in the middle of a conversation with one of our biggest donors. I didn't want to blow them off so I asked her to wait. Then I just…it slipped my mind and I came and found you."

"I spoke to her."

They both looked up at Jameson's quiet voice as he sat down beside them. "I spoke to her earlier. I was getting some water and she asked for a shot of vodka. She seemed scared so I asked her if she was ok and she said she'd gotten herself into something bad. Then she grabbed my water and left."

"Did you tell the police?" Mark asked.

"Course he did. He's a regular little snitch this one."

Sam practically leaped into the remaining seat and tugged his bow tie off, undoing the top three buttons and slouching back with his legs propped on the small table.

"What could she possibly be frightened of at a party?" Heather asked.

"Oh, I don't know pet how about getting murdered."

"But wouldn't you leave. If you thought you were going to get murdered."

"Or you'd want to stay where there are plenty of people. Witnesses." Mark suggested.

"Does anyone even know her name?"

S.H

"Holland Kitchener. No lock on her phone and she has a facebook app." Donovan said, holding up the phone to Lestrade. "She's a small time painter, sells most of her work online looks like."

"So how does she get by, and what's she doing at a party like this?" John asked.

"Check the guest list she'd most likely somebody's partner or plus one."

"No one's come forward." Donovan said.

"More likely they just don't want to. If she was a business associate they wouldn't think twice so the connection must be personal." Sherlock replied.

"I thought you were working on that other case." Donovan pointed out, her face tensing when he bent down and rolled the body to examine the back.

"Not of interest." Sherlock said, his eyes scanned the hem line of the dress.

"So you're just ignoring it?"

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm done. I have no interest in cases already solved – especially not when there's something meatier to get into."

Lestrade looked up at that, watching Sherlock with an incredulous look.

"You've solved the case."

"Obviously, do keep up."

"And you've know how long? No, you know what, I don't care. Come on what's the answer? Who did it?"

Sherlock pulled down the back of the Aqua dress.

"His wife, clearly she wasn't happy about the affair. She comes home he gets mad. They fight and she drowns him, sink, bath, fish tank."

"And the salt on the skin?"

"He's a truck driver by trade, you can see it from the hands."

When he didn't elaborate John nudged him with his foot and nodded to Lestrade who was waiting expectantly for more. Sherlock sighed and turned a little to face the detective. "It's been warm, the snow is melting and what does the council do when snow starts to fall."

Lestrade rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in frustrated realisation.

"The salt trucks."

"He most likely works hauling salt, she drove him there, threw his body into the salt and he fell from the vehicle. Now can we focus on the more interesting case at hand?"

John frowned and turned to Sherlock, his arms folded across his chest.

"You got all of this from one trip to Barts?"

"As I said, a disturbingly easy case. Now what do you make of that?"

He pointed at the line of the woman's shoulder blade, it shimmered with a silver pigment. John and Lestrade bent over to look at it.

"Paint."

"Yes inspector, but why. It's hardly cast off from a painting, too neat a coverage."

John tilted his head and looked at the brass figure carved on the handles of the doors.

"Maybe she was a human statue."

They looked up at him and he stared back determined to make his point again. "It would fit, she's pretty, athletic, an artist and low on cash. She'd already have paint skills and then all she has to do is stand on a street and let people give her money."

"It fits." Sherlock agreed, "But money would still be hard so where would she meet…Oh!"

Sherlock got to his feet, taking Holland's phone from Lestrade and striding over to a uniformed officer talking to the hotel manager who was handing over a list of the invited guests. He snatched the list and flicked through the names, comparing them to the phone.

**Maybe this is due to living in London and seeing them around but I always wonder what its' like to be one of those human statues. How do you stand so still? Surely you get tired, and bored, and hungry. Ah well…**


End file.
